Prologue
The Vale.
It was a place of pure magick. A place where magick was
rumored to have been birthed.
Spora, the crystalline spores of dried liquid magick,
drifted on the breeze like playful feathered seed as it danced about on
currents of magick-scented air. It was said to have once filled all of Sentmar.
That it fell as the flakes of snow fell upon the Glacial Mountains and filled
the valleys like a heavy magick fog.
That was before the Sidhe tricked the magick sects and
placed the humans within the most distant mountains of the planet. Those
creatures who were not natural to the lands, their evil was like a plague, like
a sickness that arose from the magick and the lands they inhabited became
imprisoned within.
The Vale was to most, even those of the magicks, known to be
only a place of legend now. Only a precious few knew the Vale still thrived,
the magick that sustained all of Sentmar flowing from it to those created to be
sustained by it.
To the warriors of the Causeway, the Ogre, it was a place
where no taint of human darkness could be found. A place of primitive, powerful
magick.
Within the Vale the Ogre could heal, surrounded by pure
magick pools, or bathe in heated streams of magick-infused waters. They could
find ease for their desires with the priestesses they could call to them,
provided by their Guardian Selects, the demi-gods the One chose to protect the
magick of Sentmar’s lands.
And once, long before, when the mists separating the lands
were first formed the One had whispered the secrets of Ogre warriors’ ability
to draw their magick females to the Vale. Magick would always breed magick, the
One had sworn. The Ogre, great of power, filled with honor, created to endure
both the magick realms and the human lands, would not be forsaken in claiming
those women filled with the magicks the Ogre was to protect. They too would
have the ability to draw and claim their hearts and desires—or so legend once
said.
But that was long ago—
* * * * *
Arabella da’Alistair, daughter of King Herndon Alistair the
Perverted of Yarba’s Eldorah Province, paused at the edge of the Causeway, her
gaze searching both the mists as well as the land behind her for any hidden
dangers. And there were many dangers that could be enemies. Enemies who would
eagerly see her destroyed for the crime she was about to commit once again.
Were she to be caught here, her sentence would be death, no
matter which sect found her.
Should her father’s forces glimpse her then he would
sacrifice her to allay the people’s concerns that she would become a creature
of magick. Should the fearsome Ogre find her, then she would be driven mad by
the sight of their grotesque visage just before being roasted upon their fiery
pits to feed their depraved legions—or so the Wise Fathers had always taught.
But should she be lucky once more, she would slip through
the mists to find that place time and land had forgotten and the warriors she
could feel pulling her to them.
For but another moment in their arms she would brave her
father’s evil as well as the Ogre pits. For but one more touch, a single caress
from those males, she would brave evil itself.
Oh how she ached to hurry to them.
It seemed ages since she had laughed with them, felt warmed
by their caresses and entranced by their kisses. And this could be the last of
such times they would be permitted to share. Come the morrow she was to be
presented to her future husband. A man she knew to be wizened and nothing like
the warriors she craved nightly.
She might never see nor touch the warriors she thought of as
hers ever again. She could not consign herself to such a fate without seeing
them one last time.
Stepping into the darkening swirls of magick-laced clouds,
inhaling as a drunkard did when given his first drink in days, Arabella once
again tempted all the forces that would see her destroyed should they learn of
this heresy.
Magick was forbidden to find a harbor in any
The Vale.
It was a place of pure magick. A place where magick was
rumored to have been birthed.
Spora, the crystalline spores of dried liquid magick,
drifted on the breeze like playful feathered seed as it danced about on
currents of magick-scented air. It was said to have once filled all of Sentmar.
That it fell as the flakes of snow fell upon the Glacial Mountains and filled
the valleys like a heavy magick fog.
That was before the Sidhe tricked the magick sects and
placed the humans within the most distant mountains of the planet. Those
creatures who were not natural to the lands, their evil was like a plague, like
a sickness that arose from the magick and the lands they inhabited became
imprisoned within.
The Vale was to most, even those of the magicks, known to be
only a place of legend now. Only a precious few knew the Vale still thrived,
the magick that sustained all of Sentmar flowing from it to those created to be
sustained by it.
To the warriors of the Causeway, the Ogre, it was a place
where no taint of human darkness could be found. A place of primitive, powerful
magick.
Within the Vale the Ogre could heal, surrounded by pure
magick pools, or bathe in heated streams of magick-infused waters. They could
find ease for their desires with the priestesses they could call to them,
provided by their Guardian Selects, the demi-gods the One chose to protect the
magick of Sentmar’s lands.
And once, long before, when the mists separating the lands
were first formed the One had whispered the secrets of Ogre warriors’ ability
to draw their magick females to the Vale. Magick would always breed magick, the
One had sworn. The Ogre, great of power, filled with honor, created to endure
both the magick realms and the human lands, would not be forsaken in claiming
those women filled with the magicks the Ogre was to protect. They too would
have the ability to draw and claim their hearts and desires—or so legend once
said.
But that was long ago—
* * * * *
Arabella da’Alistair, daughter of King Herndon Alistair the
Perverted of Yarba’s Eldorah Province, paused at the edge of the Causeway, her
gaze searching both the mists as well as the land behind her for any hidden
dangers. And there were many dangers that could be enemies. Enemies who would
eagerly see her destroyed for the crime she was about to commit once again.
Were she to be caught here, her sentence would be death, no
matter which sect found her.
Should her father’s forces glimpse her then he would
sacrifice her to allay the people’s concerns that she would become a creature
of magick. Should the fearsome Ogre find her, then she would be driven mad by
the sight of their grotesque visage just before being roasted upon their fiery
pits to feed their depraved legions—or so the Wise Fathers had always taught.
But should she be lucky once more, she would slip through
the mists to find that place time and land had forgotten and the warriors she
could feel pulling her to them.
For but another moment in their arms she would brave her
father’s evil as well as the Ogre pits. For but one more touch, a single caress
from those males, she would brave evil itself.
Oh how she ached to hurry to them.
It seemed ages since she had laughed with them, felt warmed
by their caresses and entranced by their kisses. And this could be the last of
such times they would be permitted to share. Come the morrow she was to be
presented to her future husband. A man she knew to be wizened and nothing like
the warriors she craved nightly.
She might never see nor touch the warriors she thought of as
hers ever again. She could not consign herself to such a fate without seeing
them one last time.
Stepping into the darkening swirls of magick-laced clouds,
inhaling as a drunkard did when given his first drink in days, Arabella once
again tempted all the forces that would see her destroyed should they learn of
this heresy.
Magick was forbidden to find a harbor in any
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